


not enough

by soldmyscars



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5x06, M/M, No Dialogue, hand holding, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldmyscars/pseuds/soldmyscars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...christ, how wrong he'd been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not enough

**Author's Note:**

> i was thinking about this scene today and this kind of just came pouring out.

Ian's eyes are foggy from the sedation. His head keeps falling forward, and then jerking back up when the car makes a turn or stops at a light, eyelids fluttering in confusion. Eventually Mickey sighs, the sound soft and inaudible under the hum of the engine. He turns towards Ian slightly, hand coming up to cup his jaw, gentle. Ian's lips are parted, hanging open, slack. He's breathing through his mouth and it puffs weakly against Mickey's chin. His head grows heavy in Mickey's palm, no energy to keep it upright now that there's something solid holding it. He can feel Carl's gaze on them, can see it in his peripheral vision, but the kid doesn't say anything. Nobody is saying anything. Mickey moves his hand, guiding Ian down to his shoulder, letting his pale cheek rest against it and take that heavy weight from him. Ian's eyes close. 

He falls asleep a minute later. Mickey can tell, because his unnaturally slow breathing turns a little deeper. His hand is limp and upturned on his thigh, curling into itself. The veins of his wrist are delicate, purple and blue. Pushing, almost protruding, from the vulnerably thin skin keeping them inside him. Keeping them safe, but just barely. Just for now. Mickey doesn't know why Ian's wrist is what makes his throat close, and his eyes start to blur. His hand falls from Ian's face, where it had been cradling it. He swallows and exhales, chin trembling. He turns his head forward, looks at the back of the passenger seat, blinking away tears rapidly. 

He hadn't listened. He'd been stubborn, too caught up in finally experiencing _happiness_ , of getting a taste of a domestic life with a gorgeous guy he was in love with. A guy who _wanted him_ , every fucked up, broken bit. The whole fucking pie, kid included. Even in his wildest fantasies, Mickey never believed that type of devotion could be real. Not for anybody. Definitely not for him. But now that he had it, he never wanted to let it go. He wanted all of Ian and he wanted Ian to have all of him. After all the shit they'd been through, didn't they deserve to be happy together?

So he'd ignored the signs, selfishly. Went straight back to denial and clung to it, his old friend, like a junkie to a needle. _Ian was fine. Ian was okay._ There was an explanation for all those supposed symptoms. 

Until he wasn't anymore, and there wasn't any. 

Then Mickey thought he could handle it. He could control the problem, simmer it down when it got too hot, and never let it explode. It would be manageable. He'd been taking care of situations since he exited the fucking womb. His brothers were all older than him, but they'd always taken his lead, looked to him to figure out the plan when Terry was absent. To find the solution and start doling out orders. So he could _handle_ his boyfriend getting moody, could _handle_ the sporadic fits of rage, the intense, all night fucking, the babbling, senseless rants, and the reckless scheming. As long as Ian stayed with him, slept in Mickey's bed and came home to his arms every night, everything would be alright.

...Christ, how wrong he'd been. How _naive_ and delusional. How goddamn, fucking stupid.

And when he finally forced himself to admit it, to tell Ian he was _sick_ , he'd been too late. He'd handled it wrong. He'd let it explode.

Mickey moves the hand closest to Ian, placing his palm in Ian's upturned one. He links their fingers together, grasps him, squeezing tightly to make up for Ian's lifeless grip. He can feel Ian's sluggish pulse thudding against his, their wrists lining up and pressing together. But it's not enough. _He's_ not enough. He can't help, not the way Ian needs to be helped. He doesn't have the solution to this. But maybe somebody else does. Maybe somebody can help him.

He's gotta make him go.

**Author's Note:**

> sigh


End file.
